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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481744">The Future's Open Wide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok'>callmedok</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amputee Eddie Kaspbrak, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Married Life, Post-Canon, Psychic Bond, Slice of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:54:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,503</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you, and you’re standing in the doorway.</i> <br/>-The Mountain Goats</p><p>Richie will never get tired of looking around, and seeing Eddie standing there. Or;<br/>Eggs are made, counters are leaned on, and it's the small things in life, isn't it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Future's Open Wide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For people wondering why I tagged psychic bonds, you know how Bill and Richie fight Pennywise, and Richie calls out for Eddie at one point and he hears it? [bangs gavel] That's some psychic shit, your honor. This means that Ben and Beverly's wedding was an absolute mess with all of them in the same place. It's very mild here, but that's the vibe.</p><p>Rated teen because Richie says 'cock' for a joke. I tagged 'married life' cause, to be honest? In this, they're as good-as. Title comes from I Melt With You by Modern English.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you, and you’re standing in the doorway. </em>
</p><p><em>– </em>The Mountain Goats, "Going Down to Georgia"</p><p>*</p><p>There’s an itch at the back of Richie’s neck, a flicker of <em>lovewarmfamiliar </em>rushing through him, and he turns towards the door. Pushes up his glasses absently once he frees up his hands, half his attention still on the eggs being cooked.</p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak is, despite a lingering hyper-awareness of the unclean, a leaning man. Somebody who lingers in doorways, rests their hip against counter-tops, content to stand and watch as a live audience. It’d be easy to crack a joke about voyeurism, Richie has in the past just to see him blush, but on days like this…</p><p>Seeing him there in the doorway, head resting lightly against the frame, makes any joke still on Richie’s tongue. Means something warm and fond, the emotion completely his, wells up in his chest as he looks at him. Takes in the gray threading through the dark patches of his hair, the relaxed set of his shoulders. Richie had never been a man who looked to the future often, never thought much about it beyond a vague notion of albums coming out and live shows to hit up if he had the time, but now-</p><p>What was it David Byrne had crooned? <em>I love the passing of time</em>. No longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, stumbling through life half-awake because a part of him had been plucked out. He could finally live. All of them got to live, even if that meant they were grayer, more tired than the kids they used to be.</p><p>“Mornin’, handsome. Thought y’wouldn’t wake ‘til the rooster crowed, woulda been a real shame if y’missed the chuckwagon,” Richie says, dropping into a syrupy drawl before he can think about it. Not quite Kissdrivel, some full-on Kentucky Fried thing, but something not-him anyways. He’d been trying to stop himself from leaning into that kind of thing outside of the studio, but old habits die hard. Something about the softness in Eddie’s gaze being directed at him made him want to crawl between his ribs and live there, and simultaneously made him want to head out front and walk right into the sea, never to be seen again.</p><p>Things were a work in progress.</p><p>Eddie laughs slightly, soft in a way that matches his grin. His laugh lines are gorgeous as he pushes himself off the door frame, moseys on over to lean against the countertop instead. He drapes his arm close to his waist, but these days he isn’t doing it to take up less space. Just an easy comfortable thing as he taps the side of his slipper against Richie’s bare foot. “What, they haven’t? I could’ve sworn,” Eddie replies, still grinning as he tips his head towards the radio. “Heard the Beach Boys coming from somewhere anyways.”</p><p>Richie manages a scandalized gasp as he turns back to the eggs, barely resisting the urge to press his hand to his mouth to really sell it. “Eddie! Such a scandalous mouth on you, and this early no less! You can’t call the Beach Boys <em>cocks</em>. They’ll revoke your Californian license!”</p><p>There’s a flicker of confusion to understanding, a rapid jump that’d be dizzying if it wasn’t followed up by the very real sound of Eddie’s laugh. Something loud and bright this time, a counterpoint to the way emotion lingers and oozes between them, bleeds together in a lumpy mess. “Too late, I think they’re stuck with me. Turned in my New Yorker one already.”</p><p>“Oh, go west then, my good man! Ain’t no better place to roam than these good ol’ deserts I call home.” Richie mimes flicking at the brim of a cowboy hat after vaguely divvying up the eggs in the pan, his southern twang having given way to something more Eastwood influenced, nowhere near his best. He can’t explain the jump, nothing in a way that’d make sense, but this time Eddie takes the leap in stride.</p><p>Doesn’t blink an eye or waver at all as he replies dryly “As if you weren’t a Maine boy born and raised, Tozier. I’ve seen all your jackets, you ridiculous man.” The last words lose some of their mild bite, however, as Eddie rests his hand on Richie’s upper arm. It’s a light touch, tentative as Eddie’s thumb swipes over the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Hell, I’ve added to them myself,” Eddie adds, a wry edge to his tone and in the curve of his smile that makes Richie want to kiss him.</p><p>And, well, these days he can.</p><p>He sets the spatula on the unused burner, and gently grasps Eddie’s hand. Presses a kiss to his knuckles, the best he can do at the moment. “And I treasure every one, Eds. My man has <em>spectacular</em> taste, it’s frankly astonishing how much better I’ve looked since you entered my life.” Richie says plainly, no Voice in sight. If his voice is softer than normal, more reserved, well, maybe this is who Rich Tozier is with all the other stuff stripped away.</p><p>He thinks he likes being Richie Tozier, man in love. Not a half-bad man to be.</p><p>Eddie ducks his head at the endearment, a flush creeping down his cheek and onto his neck. Another echo of <em>lovewarmfamiliar </em>flows between them, the feedback loop neither of them minds feeding into. “Go back to your eggs, Rich,” Eddie replies, and if it sounds a bit like <em>I love you</em>, that’s not half-bad either. “They’re going to burn at this rate.”</p><p>“Not if they know what’s good for ‘em,” Richie replies darkly, his grin taking some of the edge off as he releases Eddie’s hand and picks the spatula back up again. “Mind moving the plates over? I already got ‘em down but-” He gestures vaguely between them, the spot where Eddie’s oh so casually perched, and Eddie laughs again. A soft huff barely more than a breath, but the sound still makes Richie’s heart pitter-patter in his chest anyways.</p><p>“Alright. I think that’s something I can manage.” Eddie jokes, and it’s something about the curve of his mouth, a light in his eyes, that spins it that way. A quiet difference from last year, maybe, but still miles away by now after a flat-out run. Eddie had always been good at running, that was something Richie remembered well enough now, how he chased after pop flys and their bikes with a grin-</p><p>It meant a lot, after everything, that Eddie chose to stay.</p><p>The plates are cornflower blue, an old ceramic set Sandy had gotten Richie when he moved in way back when. Joked with him about how he didn’t have any excuses anymore to eat out all the time, he could finally take a break, and he’d laughed himself silly.</p><p>The plates look nice on the warm red-brown of the counter is what Richie’s getting at, like they belong there. Look just as nice with Eddie’s hand curved around one side, pushing them closer to the stove. Eddie looks like he belongs too, sleep pants the same shade of blue and a well-worn t-shirt over his shoulders. Like he could have been here all along over the years, leaning on counters and handing Richie things when they slipped out of mind-</p><p>The thought isn’t new but still feels overwhelming, just a little. Enough to have Richie just say “Thanks,” without any endearment, acting on impulse as he presses a kiss to Eddie’s shoulder. He feels like another Voice, half-baked, half-thought, might burst out of him if he isn’t careful. Kinky Briefcase maybe, that old knee-jerk defense against anything too emotional. W.C. Fields, so he <em>could </em>be overly emotional, all endearments and side-steps and playful wink-wink-nudges that never got anywhere in the end.</p><p>He feels more like Rich Tozier though as Eddie turns just enough to press a kiss to his hair, and replies “Anytime, honey,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world. <em>Sweeter than wine, </em>Ben E. King would say about that voice, <em>softer than a summer’s night,</em> and Richie wouldn’t be surprised to find flowers between his ribs if somebody cracked him open right here and now. Sunflowers maybe, or daisies from when they were kids, anything to match the well of <em>softwarmlonging</em> in his chest as Eddie’s arm settles at his waist, a warm solid weight.</p><p>The eggs are a bit dry in the end, and under-seasoned in the pan. Cooked for a hair too long, as Richie’s mother would have said with a self-deprecating laugh, but-</p><p>Eddie’s got the seat next to the window, sunlight turning all the white and silver in his hair into something more like gold as his head tips back in a laugh. Richie’s never been shy when it came to dousing things in pepper, so he can doctor them up well enough into something worth eating. There’s always time to make better eggs.</p>
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